


Four Times They Didn't (And Once That They Did)

by Brighid



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:57:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid/pseuds/Brighid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times They Didn't (And Once That They Did)

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers from seasons 1-3.

i.  
It's late and John's half asleep when Rodney comes into the infirmary; he's surprisingly quiet, and had John been any further under he wouldn't have known at all. He watches Rodney through slitted eyes, because, Christ he's had enough already today, he's been chased by Wraith and gotten hickeys from bugs and oh, yeah, died, but Rodney doesn't say anything, he just sits down in the chair Carson had left earlier. A heartbeat, maybe two, and his fingers are on the bed, so close to John's own he can feel the heat of them, the faint tremble that runs through them.

"Don't do that again," Rodney says.

John doesn't answer, because there's no answer that he can give.

None that he's allowed to give.

But he twists slightly, curls towards Rodney, and he opens his eyes, waits until Rodney sees him watching, then closes them again.

Rodney is long gone when he wakes up in the morning.

ii.  
Everyone else has gone off shift, and it's down to the night crew by the time John finds Rodney on the balcony down the hall from the labs. He watches for a while, taking in the hunch of Rodney over the rail, the miserable line of his shoulders. Eventually he sighs, and the door opens.

"Tell me it gets easier," Rodney says, not bothering to turn around.

"I," John starts, but he can't. Because it doesn't. It shouldn't.

Rodney makes a noise that's probably supposed to sound exasperated but only sounds somehow lost, maybe a little broken. "For fuck's sake, Major. Lie to me if you have to, but tell me it gets easier because I've just found another stain from Gaul's fucking brains behind the knee on my pants that I've already washed six times, and I have a handful of letters Elizabeth's making me write and what do I say? Your daughter was really good at her job, so sorry about alien nanotechnology giving her an aneurysm? So tell me it gets it easier, please, so I can lie to myself."

John reaches out, touches Rodney's shoulder fleetingly. "It gets easier."

"Liar," Rodney says finally, his voice thick and ugly.

"Fucking pathological. I have booze. Hooch, really. Probably make us blind," John says finally, because he can't handle standing there listening to Rodney not cry.

"God, yes. Please," Rodney says and John wants to reach out and touch him; wants to be able to lie to him, but Rodney's smart and John's only a good liar when he doesn't care, or he cares just enough.

Never when he cares too much.

iii  
Rodney's at the door when John answers, his face drawn and serious.

"I wanted ... I wanted to save us," Rodney says finally, after clearing his throat awkwardly a couple of times. "Can I come in?"

"You didn't," John said. "And ... no."

Rodney swallows hard. "I wanted to save us, but the problem is the 'I', isn't it?"

John thinks, yeah, no shit, lifts an eyebrow.

Rodney sighs. "I just ... I want ... I want you to believe in me again." He leans against the doorway, and John can feel the heat of him, can smell coffee and ink and peanut butter.

John sighs himself, rubs the back of his neck. "I still believe in you Rodney. That's not the problem."

"You don't trust me," Rodney says. "Isn't that the same thing?"

"No." John smiles wryly at him. "I believe you're the best chance we've got. I just don't trust you to understand the responsibility of that belief, that faith. It's not an intellectual exercise anymore, Rodney. You can't treat it like one."

"You said I could earn it back, but I don't ... don't ... ?" Rodney's not used to being believed in. He's not used to being trusted. John gets that. He has experience with that.

"You keep doing what you do, Rodney. But shut up, sometimes. Listen. And don't ever fucking try to play me again, because that's not right, and I expected ... more, from you. I thought we were ... more." Something in Rodney's eyes goes wide and stark and terrified, because he's saying it all, all that he can say and Rodney is finally, finally getting the big idea.

"So," John says finally, when the silence has stretched a little too thin. "Movie night, end of the week? Ronon wants to see The Seven Samurai again."

Rodney nods dumbly, and John reaches out, pokes him in the shoulder. "You bring the snacks."

"I can do that," Rodney says, and then turns, leaves. John watches him until he disappears around the corner.

iv  
Rodney's not asleep when John slips into the infirmary, but he doesn't do anything more than open his eyes briefly when John pulls a chair over.

He's not blue anymore, and he's finally, finally stopped shivering, but not in the scary way.

Gradually his hand flips over, leaving the pale palm exposed, and John touches it once, twice, a third time, just the barest flickering of fingers.

"Don't do that again," John says finally. "Seriously. Don't."

Rodney nods once, tiredly, then closes his eyes.

John waits until he's asleep, then touches his broad, warm palm one more time, just to be sure of him.

v.  
They're halfway through a bottle of tequila before John finds himself with a lapful of Rodney on the hotel room bed, and he tries to remember all the reasons why he shouldn't, but there's just the gaslight burn of Rodney's kiss and the fact that they've lost everything, it's gone, everything that was them and home and this is all they've left of it, this thing that never was but ...

"Fuck, fuck." Rodney's tongue is sliding up the side of his throat, tracing up over his the edge of his ear and he's gasping, fighting to breathe against the fist clenched where his heart should be. "Clothes off, clothes off," Rodney orders, begs, whatever the fuck, it's a million degrees and John wants this, he wants this so damn bad.

"They can't fucking take this," Rodney says. "They can't, oh, Christ, John," he says raggedly, brokenly as John pushes his shirt up, licks a wet, wicked swathe from sternum to navel and John wishes he was entirely sober, because he knows he won't remember everything and he's going to regret that, he's greedy enough to want to remember it all.

Promises himself that next time, he will.


End file.
